my tastes have changed; i’m not as into
sweetness, anymore. i still go wild — still lose my
mind for
certain scents, the ones reminiscent
of old haunted wood ships and blue raspberry hookah smoke.
remember when there was nothing
but daytime cocaine and the one
song (about the breeze) and
where do chapters end? when do things pass?
how do you separate an over from a start
how do you delineate, anything, ever?
so yes, if you have something nice to say, please say it;
clearly, i am a slut for
any and some and no and all things.
and i will wake up again
from a dream where i am
hosting a dinner party in a paint shop under a ferris wheel on the pier,
and everyone who’s made a life out of living for vivid color
is cheering for me and raising my chair and saying i should run for president,
and i am flattered and vain and humble and laughing, yes,
“yes,” i laugh.

January is a month for beginnings. This isn’t a new concept, nor is it one that I’ve ever particularly subscribed to: calendar dates are mostly arbitrary, rarely aligning with actual historical events and watershed moments. The president was inaugurated, again; the trees remained bare and scrawny; winter quarter at the university commenced. For me, though, two very new sensations appeared: my arms and legs began to shake uncontrollably, vibrating as if by some odd, latent tic; and I became convinced that I didn’t exist.